


Protein Shake

by applecore



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Belly Kink, Blow Jobs, Boston Bruins, Come Inflation, Dubious Consent, Gangbang, Inflation, M/M, Multi, Public Sex, Stuffing, unrealistic amounts of jizz
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-04
Updated: 2015-06-04
Packaged: 2018-04-02 11:38:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,989
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4058593
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/applecore/pseuds/applecore
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After scoring his first game winner, Tyler takes care of all the Bruins, and by take care we mean blow jobs. Afterwards, Marchy takes care of him and his poor come-swollen belly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Protein Shake

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a prompt at the hockey kink meme, as part of Kinkfest. Heed the tags - we are talking completely fantastical quantities of jizz here. Also I couldn't find who Segs's road roommate was that year when it wasn't Caron, so I just picked somebody.

It’s so easy. Left, right, deke Mason out and the puck flies inside the post, just where Tyler knew it would go. The bench is on its feet, ready to bump his fist; the Columbus crowd is jeering, he’s sure, but he’s deaf to it. All he can hear, still, is that joyous metallic _ping_ of rubber against metal.

He returns to the bench, nearly vibrating, and then he holds his breath through the Jackets’ second shootout attempt and then Bergy’s. Then Upshall, Columbus’s last hope at evening it up, sends it straight into Tuuks’ blocker, and it’s over, the guys around Tyler shoving and cheering again and shoving so more. It takes Tyler’s fevered, overjoyed brain a minute to get it: he won. He scored the game winner. 

He knows what that means. He saw what it meant for Marchy, just a month ago, and his mouth goes dry. He barely notices the head taps. He skates out to Tuuks on autopilot, and Tuuks grins through his mask and drawls, “Rookie,” the last vowel drawn out long and suggestive. “Nice one.”

“Yeah,” Tyler says, because it _was_. 

His heart’s beating pretty hard, even for a win.

He skates off the ice with the rest of the guys, or is herded, smack in the center with hockey players on every side – handsier than usual, he thinks, but it could be his imagination. They stomp down to the locker room, and he’s not imagining this: the back slaps, the shining teeth, and the eyes agleam with purpose. Tyler gives them all a what-up as he tromps by, and he swallows his nerves. He _earned_ this.

Marchy’s locker is next to Tyler’s. “You looked really good out there, Segs,” Marchy says softly.

“Yeah I did,” Tyler agrees.

“Yeah he _did_ ,” Looch called from across the room to a chorus of hoots and catcalls. Tyler chooses that moment to pull his jersey over his head, to hide his red fucking face – not because of the praise, hello, he knows he’s the fucking ritz. He’s blushing because he knows what comes next.

Or he knows approximately, anyway, because first there’s media, asking him questions while he sits there in his Under Armour, flushed with anticipation and pretending it’s from hockey. The guys who didn’t win the game are already heading for the showers, and Tyler appreciates that, he does, because there’s something to be said for nature, but this time, he’ll take soap and hot water.

Finally he gets free of the last lingering beat writer. He passes Looch on the way to the shower, and Looch towel-snaps him, snickering. The sting across Tyler’s ass is like a promise. 

When he gets back to the locker room, everyone’s loitering at the edges, some more dressed than others, talking amongst themselves, not looking. He can feel the weight of it, all their attention on him even as their gazes are all bent away. A nervous cramp aches in the pit of his stomach. Marchy’s off in a corner making sympathetic eyes. It doesn’t help.

“Well?” Looch drawls, and every eye turns to him. He drops the towel at his waist and plunks down in his stall. He sprawls his knees wide, and there’s his dick, long and pink and already interested. He gestures to it with a flourish worthy of maître d, and he might as well, considering. “Well, Segs?”

Dinner is served.

Before Tyler can move, someone pushes him from behind. He staggers forward and tumbles to his knees, two feet too far from Looch to do any good, and he has to knee-walk those last inches.

“Come on, kid,” Looch says, like he’s some grizzled veteran instead of just a couple years Tyler’s senior. “Bottoms up.”

It _is_ up, kind of, bobbing in Tyler’s face. It’s mesmerizing, like one of those snakes. Any longer and it might bite him. So he doesn’t wait; he leans forward and drops his jaw and takes the tip of Looch’s dick into his mouth. He shuffles forward a little more and takes Looch deeper – not too deep, because Tyler knows his gag reflex too well for that. It’s hot and weighty and a little wider than he’s used to. Tentatively he licks at it. 

Looch groans – in frustration. His hand falls on Tyler’s head, and his gets a grip and pulls Tyler’s gaze up to meet his. “Get the fuck on with it, kid. This is your reward, now suck me like you fucking mean it.”

“Come on, Segs!” calls someone else.

“Game winnerrr,” a third guy yells. A second voice picks it up. “Game winnerrrrr,” they repeat, drawling out more Rs on every reprise until the whole room is into it and the only person not yelling at the top of his lungs is Tyler. Because Tyler has a dick in his mouth, and Tyler has lost his nerve.

He’s hot like a furnace. He’s standing under white-hot stage lights, and every eye is on him, even Looch’s, his abs flexing each time he yells. 

It’s all down to Tyler, just like it was an hour ago. He put a puck past Steve Mason; he can damn well do this. He closes his eyes.

Looch is fully hard, now, panting instead of yelling, and the flavor of him is beginning to seep onto Tyler’s tongue. Tyler feels the first twinge of a familiar ache in his jaw, and in a flash he remembers that he has eighteen more to go. If he works them all with his mouth he will actually die, and what a fucking shame that would be. He lifts his hand, and cautiously he runs his fingers up Looch’s shaft.

Looch’s moan is the good kind this time. “Yeah,” he says, fingers in Tyler’s hair again and just shy of pulling. “Yeah, like that. And don’t you dare fucking stop.”

Something in the guttural command cuts through all Tyler’s multitasking and takes a squirrely, squirming path through his belly, all the way down to his dick. He has to pause, to get his bearings again, and Looch’s grip on his hair tightens. Tyler can’t protest that he’s not stopping, so he takes a quick sharp breath through his nose and then drags his hand down Looch, easy and slow, and he works a groan out of him.

Tyler feels that down low, too.

When Looch comes, it’s with a grunt and a hot, bitter splash on Tyler’s tongue. And then he keeps coming – four seconds, five, six. Tyler has to swallow and keep swallowing to keep up with it. Finally the flood of come ends in a final viscous spurt, and Tyler swallows that, too. He gives Looch a last solicitous lick and pulls off.

Distantly Tyler’s aware of cheering and catcalling, but he’s too busy thinking about the load in his stomach. He imagines he can feel it sitting there, heavier than it has any right to be.

Then he can’t think about it anymore, because there are hands on his shoulders and on his head, pointing him towards his next dick: Rex’s, as it happens. He’s sitting in his stall next door to Looch’s, his boxers around his ankles and his hand resting on his dick. 

“Oh, hey.” Before he can stop himself, Tyler reaches out and buries his fingertips in Rex’s pubes. “So you’ve still got _some_ hair left.”

Rex gives a disbelieving bark of a laugh, and then he’s got Tyler’s chin in his hand. “ _Mouthy_ ,” he says, almost appreciative. “Let’s see what else that mouth can do.”

Tyler ignores that building heat in his gut, and he licks a stripe up Rex’s shaft. 

Rex takes longer to come than Looch did, and then he takes longer doing it. Tyler gets it all down, and he doesn’t quite choke, but he doesn’t get more than five seconds to ponder that new volume of come gurgling in his stomach before he’s being pushed at Bergy.

And that’s how it goes: one guy to the next, up close and intimate with dicks that Tyler has never before had reason to look at and hopefully never will again. Somewhere past halfway through he finds himself at Marchy’s stall. He feels like he does when he says a word until it doesn’t even sound like a word anymore; he’s stretched his lips around so many dicks that none of them look real, not even Marchy’s, the one dick in this room he knows almost as well as his own. It hangs there all long and pink and veiny like some kind of alien that’s attached itself to Marchy’s crotch, never to let go.

“Hey,” Marchy says, too soft. Tyler can see the word _Babe_ hanging silent on his lips.

“Hey,” Tyler says. Or croaks. He can’t help but smile up at Marchy, who’s looking at him all concerned.

“How you doing?”

Tyler takes a second to do what he hasn’t had time for in ages, it seems: feel himself out. His jaw aches, predictably. So do his knees. His throat’s sore. His stomach—it’s getting full. His next breath is a little shallow, because he doesn’t have enough room to take a deeper one. No imagination required, now: he’s got ten or a dozen loads of spunk in him, and he can feel it, like he’s drunk too much water too fast.

Tyler grins wider, showing his teeth. “I’m doing okay.”

“You gonna make it?” Marchy asks, and he shouldn’t have, Tyler knows he shouldn’t.

The next second, Looch calls, “Yeah, Segs. You even gonna be able to take all of us?” There’s a note in his voice that makes Tyler flush, and not with the good kind of shame. It’s that same note Tyler hears when someone asks if a guy can even make it on this team with scorer’s hands like Tyler’s, who’s soft like Tyler is.

Tyler lifts his chin. “Watch me,” he says, and takes Marchy in his mouth.

He can’t get settled, this time. It’s _Marchy_ , and Tyler keeps wanting to draw it out, tease Marchy until he’s trembling and cursing on the edge, but he can’t because there’s all these other fuckers around – Looch off behind one shoulder, surely grinning that maniac grin – and no way is Tyler letting any of them see him take Marchy apart. 

But he doesn’t know how to detach, either, to pretend like this is just another dick in his mouth. He’s stuck in some in-between, and so it seems like he works forever with his fingers and his tongue before Marchy comes – not as much as he sometimes does, but plenty enough that by the time he finishes there’s a new tightness high in Tyler’s stomach, a strip of tension just below his ribs.

He sits back on his heels, gasping. A hint of nausea squirms in his belly, and he breathes through his nose to try and calm it down. He can’t lose his cool yet. He still has a bunch of guys to go.

“You doing okay?” Marchy says. He’s soft enough this time that nobody seems to hear; they’re all hollering among themselves.

Tyler nods. He doesn’t trust himself to open his mouth yet.

“Slow breaths,” Marchy says. He squeezes Tyler’s shoulder, and Tyler closes his eyes. Marchy just did this last month; Marchy knows. Tyler was fucking useless then. He took Marchy home to Tyler’s place and brought him water to sip, and then he left him alone, because Marchy asked him to, and he went and slept on the couch.

Tyler hopes Marchy isn’t planning to leave him alone tonight.

“You’re doing awesome,” Marchy says. 

Tyler scoffs. He’s past wanting to show them what he’s made of, he’s way past the thrill of them shouting him on, and he can barely remember the goal he scored, ages ago. He just wants to be done. He just wants to not puke.

He’s feeling kind of really full, right now. He doesn’t want to know how many guys he has left. He bows his head and keeps on taking careful breaths until someone starts prodding at him again.

There are six left, it turns out. Krejci, who pats Tyler on the shoulder as Tyler kneels, friendly. He comes with his eyes closed, clutching Tyler’s bicep. 

Shawn, who moans like a porn star the instant Tyler’s mouth is on his dick and doesn’t stop until he comes. And when he does, he comes like a fire hydrant. All Tyler can do is try not to gag as Shawn shoots into his stomach, on and on. Afterwards, Tyler can only manage a shallow breath. He doesn’t have room left for a deeper one.

Soupy, who tells Tyler he tickles and can’t seem to stop giggling. He’s a big boy, and that ache that’s been building in Tyler’s jaw kicks suddenly feels like he’s got bone scraping bone.

Piesy tells him that he’s doing good, kid. Just a couple more to go. Tyler kind of can’t pay enough attention to appreciate it. His stomach was not made for this. Every breath is difficult now, tight and high in his lungs. 

Tuuks. Of course Tuuks, the last guy to go but one. “Rookie,” he drawls again. He pets Tyler’s hair, and he doesn’t seem in all that much of a hurry to put Tyler to work. By now some of the guys have drifted away, to their street clothes or their phones. Those left don’t seem to mind a pause, either. 

“You’re all full now,” Tuuks says.

Tyler swallows hard. Tuuks isn’t wrong. Stick a pin in Tyler, and he’d leak spunk all over the locker room carpet. 

“You did good out there tonight. I appreciate the win, you know. You know?” Tuuks prods, when Tyler doesn’t answer. Carefully Tyler nods. “So I’m giving you a gift.” He pats his dick fondly. “It’s a pretty good gift, I think. You think so?”

Tyler’s mouth is too dry the first time. He swallows, tries again. “Yeah,” he croaks.

“Yeah, you want it. This is prime goalie cock here.” He grins down out Tyler, impish, and Tyler can’t help but smile back a little, no matter how his jaw and his belly ache. 

Tuuks swears in Finnish when he comes. 

And then finally Z. Z, who’s been waiting all this time. God, he’s huge. He’s huge _everywhere_ , and that’s not even talking about his dick. Tyler thought he’d gotten used to it after skating with the guy for months, but now he scoots between Z’s knees, and they’re practically up to Tyler’s shoulders. He’s going to suck a fucking _tree_. And then explode. He’s kept his hand off his stomach all this time, but now he can’t help but palm the top of the swell in sympathy.

“Just relax, Tyler,” Z says. “Don’t tense up. It’ll make it harder. Breathe.”

Yeah, right. There’s not remotely enough room in Tyler’s belly for breath. He doesn’t disagree, though; he knows better than that. Instead he wraps his lips around Z’s dick. Even his shoulder is tired now. He works Z anyway, fingers and tongue, braced for the odd twitch as Z starts to flush, hot and heavy.

Z threads his fingers through Tyler’s hair. First he only presses gently, but then he begins to massage Tyler’s scalp. “That’s right,” Z says. Tyler realizes abruptly that his eyes are closed, but he’s not too inclined to open them, anymore. He’s floating a little, he thinks, one of those inflatable beach balls bobbing on a river of jizz.

Somehow his throat doesn’t close up when Z comes. It takes him a long time. _Relax_ , Tyler thinks, while Z keeps pouring down his throat. When Z finishes, he gently pushes Tyler off. Come dribbles down his chin, and Z wipes it off with a thumb and then gives Tyler the thumb to suck. Tyler obediently does.

Z lifts Tyler’s chin until Tyler meets his eyes. “You did good, Tyler. Out there. In here. You’re gonna go far.” He squeezes Tyler’s shoulder. That floaty feeling isn’t going away. Z shakes his head. “You let Marchy take care of you now, kid. Fly out in the morning.”

Marchy? Tyler turns, and suddenly Marchy is there. “God, you’re a fucking disaster,” Marchy says. Seeing Tyler’s puzzlement, Marchy gestures down. Oh. Tyler’s got come dripping all down his t-shirt. Apparently he didn’t swallow quite all of it.

“Come on, game winner,” Marchy says, hauling Tyler to his feet. Tyler closes his eyes and fights the urge to keel over. “Let’s go back to the hotel.”

The hotel sounds good. God, everything hurts. Tyler swallows, wincing; he’s not sure he can talk at all. 

Marchy gets Tyler dressed. It’s a slow, careful process. Tyler’s pants don’t quite button, and when Marchy discovers that he slaps Tyler on the shoulder. “Way to go, Segs.” Tyler can’t help but grin back, even while he cops a feel of his own belly, hidden now under his shirt. It feels—big. He didn’t really look before, and he’s having trouble imagining it now.

Finally March gets Tyler’s coat around his shoulders and walks him out to the bus, a hand under his elbow the whole way. He snags them the very first seat. He herds Tyler into the window seat and takes the aisle – protective. Tyler wants to laugh, because come the fuck on, he is _Tyler Seguin_ , he just won the game and sucked every dude in the room. He’s the fucking bomb.

Although, to be fair, he doesn’t really want to talk to anyone right now. Or move. He closes his eyes as the bus starts to pull out.

“Gonna puke?” Marchy asks softly.

He ought to want to. He’s got—fuck, he swallowed so much fucking come. But it’s kind of—settling in, now. Making itself at home. His belly is resigned to its fate. 

Belatedly he remembers to shake his head.

“Can I—?” Marchy asks. Tyler peels his eyes open to try and figure out what Marchy wants. And what he wants, it looks like, is to touch Tyler’s stomach. What the fuck for, Tyler can’t imagine, but he shrugs. Cautiously Marchy slides his hand over Tyler, right across the place that feels tightest, high under his ribs. Marchy whistles. “Can’t believe you took so much.”

Tyler tries locating some words. Finally he scrapes out, “You just did this. Last month.”

“Yeah, but.” 

But Marchy doesn’t seem to know what follows that _but_. They ride the rest of the way to hotel in silence, Marchy’s hand still resting on Tyler’s middle.

First on, first off, although Tyler isn’t moving very fast. The rest of the team soon gets ahead of them without so much as a word Tyler’s way. Someone gives him a squeeze on the shoulder, though – Tuuks, maybe. 

That’s fine. Tyler has seen enough of all them to definitely last him the night.

It’s his room Marchy takes them to. It’s deserted; Bergy must have fucked off somewhere. Tyler collapses on the bed he’d claimed as his, back to the headboard. He closes his eyes, and he opens them again to Marchy holding a water bottle to his lips. “I can hold my own fucking water bottle, Marchy,” he says, grabbing for it. Then he scowls. “Not really feeling it right now, anyway.”

“You should have some,” Marchy said, not quite looking at Tyler. “You’ll get dehydrated.”

Tyler is a professional athlete, thanks very much. He knows from hydration. Then again, maybe it’d be nice to get a little of the jizz taste out of his mouth. He has a couple careful swallows while Marchy watches out of the corner of his eye. Tyler doesn’t know what _he’s_ suddenly getting cagey about. 

“So you probably want out of the slacks, right?” Marchy asks. “They gotta be pinching a little.” He smirks in the direction of Tyler’s pants button, still unbuttoned.

Suddenly Tyler has to know what he looks like. What does he _feel_ like, now that he can touch himself and not get chirped for it?

He unzips his pants, and when he lifts his butt, Marchy obligingly yanks them down his legs. Then Tyler starts on his shirt buttons. The top ones are fine, but the ones over his stomach are looking a little—strained. Marchy slaps Tyler’s fingers away and unfastens the buttons himself, one at a time. It occurs to Tyler that Marchy’s going kind of slow, but finally the last one’s undone and he pulls the edges of Tyler’s shirt back, like drawing a curtain.

Tyler stares. “Fuck.”

He knew he was full. He knew he’d swallowed a fuckton of come. He just hadn’t really put together how much a fuckton would be when it was _in his stomach_. 

Cautiously he brushes his fingers over his belly. It swells out in front of him, round as a ripe melon. He presses gently, but there’s barely any give; he’s not drum-tight, but he’s close. “Fuck,” he repeats. No wonder his breath is so shallow.

He’s so _visible_.

“Wow,” Marchy says. Something in Marchy’s tone makes Tyler want to pull his shirt closed again. “How does it feel? Does it hurt?”

“I dunno, man.” Tyler shifts against the pillows. “Wasn’t it the same for you?” 

Marchy hunches away. “I mean, yeah. Obviously.”

“Freak,” Tyler croaks. Marchy attempts a feeble half-grin. “Look, you don’t have to stay, dude,” Tyler says, despite how little the thought of going tonight alone appeals. “Z or somebody’ll let you crash on their floor.”

“What?” Marchy squawked, eyes wide. “Wait, do you want me to go? If you want, sure, I can take off.”

Tyler sighs weakly. “You’re freaking out. Whatever your deal is, either deal or leave, okay? I am way too beached-whale for your drama tonight, man.”

“Sorry,” Marchy says, ducking his head. His shoulders droop. 

Tyler refuses to feel bad. “Can you just help get me outta my clothes?”

Marchy practically falls off the bed in his hurry. Eventually Tyler does have to get up long enough to get his shirt off and his pants from around his ankles, and then he settles back down on the bed. The movement makes him belch, and wow, that flavor’s a whole new level of gross. 

That full feeling isn’t getting any less, either. Tyler kneads the side of his stomach with the heel of his hand, and that coaxes out another belch. 

“I can—” Marchy says, scooting next to him on the bed. “Do you want me to—” He palms Tyler’s belly, and Tyler’s torn between embarrassment and sudden panic that Marchy’ll make him puke. Talk about things that go better down than they come back up. Just the thought of it makes him a little nauseous, and he has to swallow, hard.

But Marchy’s still wide-eyed and waiting on an answer. Before Tyler can formulate one, Marchy massages a circle in Tyler’s skin, and, oh. “Yeah,” Tyler says breathlessly. “Yeah, do that.”

Marchy freezes, and for a moment Tyler thinks he’s going to back off, because apparently this is Marchy’s night for being a contrary little shit. But finally Marchy starts again, working a slow, looping path along the bottom curve of Tyler’s belly.

It’s soothing, a little, like massaging a headache. The underlying, overfull ache doesn’t go away, but it recedes into the background under the rhythmic pressure of Marchy’s fingers. That feeling of settledness starts to creep back in into Tyler’s belly, swelling him tighter, weighing him down. With the motion of Marchy’s hands, it feels kind of—good, even.

Okay, it feels pretty great. Marchy digs in just a little with the heel of his hand, and Tyler groans, arching his back and pressing his belly up into Marchy’s palm. And then Tyler freezes.

They stare at each other for a moment. Tyler’s breath is caught in his throat. Marchy’s eyes are huge, and he’s turning blotchily red.

“Sorry,” Tyler says, and he _is_. He’s sorry Marchy offered, and he’s sorry he took him up on it, and now he really just wants to take himself and his spunk-swollen belly and hide in the bathroom. He scoots as far away from Marchy as the bedframe allows – an inch or two at best. “It’s okay, I’m good now, if you want to take the other bed—”

“It’s really hot,” Marchy blurts. Tyler stills. Wary, he waits for the joke. “ _You’re_ really hot. Like this.” Marchy starfishes his fingers over Tyler’s navel. He must take Tyler’s slack-jawed disbelief for encouragement, because he adds, “Such a fucking turn-on, Tyler. You buried that goal, and then you swaggered into the room and took them _all_. All fucking nineteen of us.”

Chirping is automatic. “That get you going, Marchy?” Marchy just stares back, like he’s waiting for Tyler to make fun. His patchy flush deepens, and there’s a hint of something like shame at the back of his eyes. Tyler’s smirk falls away. “Seriously? This is not attractive, dude.” Tyler encompasses his whole swollen belly with a gesture, and Marchy’s eyes follow. They take on a certain lustful glaze, and Tyler knows that look. He knows it pretty goddamn well. 

Fuck. Now he _really_ can’t catch his breath. He swallows. “So you gonna rub my tummy or what?”

“Shit,” Marchy says. He flashes Tyler one last skeptical glance, and then he sits forward on his knees and lays both hands on Tyler’s belly and begins those careful circles again. “Been wanting to do this all night,” he mutters. His attention is fixed on the skin stretched out beneath his fingers, like he _wants_ to look at Tyler all swollen and distorted. Like the visible evidence of Tyler’s marathon cocksucking gets him hot.

It’s getting Tyler a little hot, to be honest. And a little shy. “You’re really into this?” he asks, before he can stop himself.

“Shit, Tyler. You have no idea.” Marchy leans forward and presses a kiss to the curve of Tyler’s belly, and that uncertain want that’s been simmering in Tyler’s gut for hours goes straight to a boil. Of course Marchy notices. “Oh, yeah?” he says, brushing a finger up the side of Tyler’s half-erect dick.

“Yeah,” Tyler says shakily. “I guess so.”

Marchy flashes Tyler a shark grin. “Awesome.” He frames Tyler’s belly in his hands and kisses it some more – quick, barely-there kisses, made more ticklish by the chap on Marchy’s lips. Tyler fights to stay still. Then Marchy drops lower, barely above Tyler’s pubes, and licks a stripe right up the side of Tyler’s belly.

Tyler has to clutch the edge of the mattress to keep from thrusting into Marchy. “Holy _shit_ , what are you doing. You are going to fucking _kill me_.”

“Obviously,” Marchy says. He licks his lips, and he goes in again. Tyler’s braced for it this time, and even so he barely holds it together.

Marchy’s laughing at him. “Dude, if I knew you were into that, I’d have done it fucking months ago.”

“I’m not,” Tyler protests. “I mean. It’s.” Marchy just waits, eyes lit with that special smugness that Tyler doesn’t think anyone saw except for him. Tyler tries, “It’s because it’s now? When I’m all—” He gestures down at himself. “So I’m kind of really sensitive right now, and also I look fucking weird, and you’re just, like, _looking_ at me like this, and, and—”

“Yeah,” Marchy says, mercifully cutting him off. “I’m looking at you, all right.” 

And he is; Tyler thinks he can _feel_ Marchy’s gaze crawling across his skin, like ants. It makes his armpits prickle with something not quite embarrassment. “Marchy—”

“So good,” Marchy repeats. He drops lower; he tongues the head of Tyler’s dick. Tyler just about levitates off the bed. Marchy pops his head up. “Okay?”

“Yeah,” Tyler gasps. “I just—” He just didn’t realize he’d gotten that hard from Marchy looking at _his stuffed belly_. He didn’t think he even had it in him while he was this fucking full.

“Your turn, right?” March asks, grinning, over his worry. He burrows back down into Tyler’s crotch and takes Tyler’s whole head in his mouth. And oh yes, getting off is definitely not going to be a problem. Drawing it out is going to be the problem. Tyler closes his eyes and tries to hold on.

The wet heat of Marchy’s mouth is already good, and then he presses a hand awkwardly against Tyler’s side, against the evidence of everything Tyler did tonight, off the ice and on, too, and with that, the final vestige of Tyler’s self-consciousness washes away in a rush of want. It sparks all through him, throat to spine to dick. His breath is harsh in his battered throat. He puts his hand to his belly and rubs right over the tight, fierce ache. It centers him in the here and now, in the heavy pressure holding him down and the slick teasing of Marchy’s tongue on his dick, in the post-game weariness of his limbs and the bruise to his ribs from that hit in the third.

All of it together holds him there on the edge, teetering. It’s an innocent brush of Marchy’s thumb against Tyler’s taut, sensitive skin that finally sends him over, headlong and gasping. He groans through it, and then falls back against the pillow.

A few seconds later, Marchy crawls up next to him. He leans in for a kiss. Tyler’s barely aware enough to kiss back, to open up when Marchy’s tongue pokes at him, and then suddenly Tyler has a mouthful of jizz. _Fresh_ jizz.

He just barely manages to keep from choking on it. Marchy’s still leaning over him, laughing at him, and it’d serve the fucker right if Tyler coughed it all over him. But he manages to swallow, and then Marchy leans in and whispers, “Figured I’d make it twenty.” He presses a kiss to Tyler’s jaw. “Game winner.”

END

**Author's Note:**

> Anonymous comments open [here at the kinkmeme](http://thesinbin.dreamwidth.org/1008.html?thread=835824#cmt835824)!


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